TO EDGAR WILSON NYE
O “William,”—in thy blithe companionshipWhat liberty is mine—what sweet releaseFrom clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tipThat dints the dimple now, and kinks the lipThat scarce may sing, in all this glad increaseOf merriment! So, pray-thee, do not ceaseTo cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quipOf thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fretOf all distress is stilled—no syllableOf sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wetMy teeming lids save those that leap to tellThee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yetOnly because thou jokest overwell.
O “William,”—in thy blithe companionshipWhat liberty is mine—what sweet releaseFrom clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tipThat dints the dimple now, and kinks the lipThat scarce may sing, in all this glad increaseOf merriment! So, pray-thee, do not ceaseTo cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quipOf thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fretOf all distress is stilled—no syllableOf sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wetMy teeming lids save those that leap to tellThee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yetOnly because thou jokest overwell.
O “William,”—in thy blithe companionshipWhat liberty is mine—what sweet releaseFrom clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tipThat dints the dimple now, and kinks the lipThat scarce may sing, in all this glad increaseOf merriment! So, pray-thee, do not ceaseTo cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quipOf thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fretOf all distress is stilled—no syllableOf sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wetMy teeming lids save those that leap to tellThee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yetOnly because thou jokest overwell.
O “William,”—in thy blithe companionship
What liberty is mine—what sweet release
From clamorous strife, and yet what boisterous peace!
Ho! ho! it is thy fancy’s finger-tip
That dints the dimple now, and kinks the lip
That scarce may sing, in all this glad increase
Of merriment! So, pray-thee, do not cease
To cheer me thus;—for, underneath the quip
Of thy droll sorcery, the wrangling fret
Of all distress is stilled—no syllable
Of sorrow vexeth me—no tear-drops wet
My teeming lids save those that leap to tell
Thee thou’st a guest that overweepeth, yet
Only because thou jokest overwell.